


Every Step That I've Ever Taken Has Been In Your Direction

by sayhitoforever



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, young jonny and patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:13:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayhitoforever/pseuds/sayhitoforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Toews met Patrick Kane for the first time when they were thirteen. And its not like Jonny's saying he can see championships and Stanley Cups in Patrick's blue eyes, but he could.<br/>(Based loosely on the recent ESPN interview)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Step That I've Ever Taken Has Been In Your Direction

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a nonsensical fic. But someone submitted an anon-ask to kephiso on tumblr that drove me to write this this. It's pretty much based on the ESPN interview that just came out between these two dorks. Here's the link to the ask that inspired this: http://kephiso.tumblr.com/post/69612111134/you-know-what-this-article-means-them-at-11-12-13

Jonny’s awkward, okay? He can’t admit it out loud, but he can certainly admit it to himself. Big crowds of people make him want to shrink back and curl in on himself because he often feels overwhelmed by all the faces and pairs of eyes locked on him. Being overwhelmed makes him stumble over his words, makes him blank on all of the perfectly articulated phrases he has set up. He’s awkward when he first meets people too. Maybe it’s because he’s young and uncomfortable in his own skin, doesn’t really know who he is yet. He never knows just _how_ to talk to somebody, but he’s sure there’s some strategy out there that makes people like you instantly that he just hasn’t heard about yet. Life is all about being a chameleon; being someone different in front of somebody else, morphing into someone they get along with. It’s just that Jonny’s no good at that. Not at all.

Because of that, some of the guys on his junior team in Winnipeg think he’s a little too quiet, a little too shy. Jonny gets ribbed about it all the time, chirped and antagonized into snapping back because even though he’s twelve and should know better than to rise to the bait, he doesn’t know how to back down from a challenge. He gets bruised and tossed around more than his mother likes, but it’s in those moments when he’s barking back and then letting his skill follow his words up with a bite that he feels like he’s found himself. He feels like he knows who he is and who he’s supposed to be. Or, at least, he thinks he does, but when you’re twelve what the hell do you really know?

Jonny loves all the boys despite the constant chirping of how awkward he is. They’re a group of solidly talented guys for a bunch of gangly teenagers. He loves that they’re all like him; intent on throwing themselves into hockey and that they have the same kind of passion for the game that he does. It doesn’t really matter to him who he plays with either. Despite his introversion, he likes meeting new guys, likes that the team is in constant rotation of new faces. They’re just more people he can learn from and get to know. Nothing ever comes close to the touch of smooth ice under his skates and the feeling of a hockey stick tucked in his gloves, sturdy and dependable. Jonny didn’t think it was possible to top the feeling of flying down the ice during a game, crisp rink-air biting at his cheeks and his nose, passing to his left wing, and watching the puck sail just beyond the glove of the goalie and into the netting of the goal. For Jonny, nothing feels the way hockey feels.

That is, until he meets Patrick Kane.

His Winnipeg team is playing some team out of the United States and when Jonny hears that, naturally, he scoffs. A fellow teammate of Jonny’s had had a similar reaction:

“Hockey is a Canadian sport,” he’d said in cracking voice, “Keep your bald eagle and your star-spangled banner away from it.”

Jonny remembers the pre-game practice at the local rink hosting the game and staring out at all the opposing players from behind his helmet. There’s one kid and he’s so _small_ it’s almost funny. Short, scrawny, all his padding and gear looks too big for him and he’s drowning in his jersey. And when he skates to the bench and yanks his too-big-looking helmet off, Jonny can see that he’s all wintry-pale skin and springy, blond curls, and the most ridiculous, large blue eyes Jonny has ever seen. He looks far too breakable to be a hockey player with those rounded cheekbones and delicate nose. The rest of the team is a bit more impressive to say the least. Winnipeg is going to grind their noses into the ice, Jonny is so sure of it.

Except that they don’t. They don’t exactly get their asses handed to them, but, after the game, Jonny can see a lot of his teammates with their tails tucked between their legs as they waddle back into the locker room. But in the midst of the game, Jonny feels like they’re both evenly matched, that the game is going to be so push-pull it might get frustrating. And it does start to get frustrating. Especially when Jonny is sitting on the bench and has to watch that scrawny midget of a hockey player deke around his team’s defensemen like they’re skates have been frozen to the surface of the ice and chip a clean wrister behind his goalie. Jonny feels figurative steam coming out of his ears and knows he’s probably flushed with exertion and, now, anger. Because that kid is _small_ and _underweight_ and _short_ and he’s _good_ and Jonny just doesn’t think that’s fair. Jonny feels like he has something to prove now, being taller and built better at twelve. Not to mention he’s his team’s top scorer. He’s not going to let some midget American with baby-bird bone structure make him look like a fool.

So, he scores a goal on his next shift and skates back to the bench feeling like he’s asserted himself and also feeling slightly victorious because his team now has the lead. But when Jonny jumps the boards on his next shift to take the face-off, there’s that pint-sized player just a few feet away, his eyes bluer than the sky in the summer and just as clear, staring at Jonny like Jonny’s the only other player on the ice. And that makes Jonny so many different types of uncomfortable that he loses the face-off. But then it doesn’t matter because Jonny’s suddenly face-to-face with those cheekbones and those eyes and those dumb curls peeking out from the bottom of the kid’s helmet and something starts a fire in Jonny’s chest. He plays the longest shift he’s ever played and he battles for the puck with more determination that he’s ever felt and he’s toe-to-toe with this kid that’s way too talented for his own good. Jonny can’t even find it in himself to be mad when the other team’s center slaps a shot cleanly through his goalie’s five-hole and scores. When the buzzer signaling the end of the third period rings through the rink, Jonny lets his shoulders slump a little in defeat. He wanted to win if only to prove that he’s just as good as that string-bean of a boy on the other team. He looks around at the rest of his boys and can seem them in various other stages of loss.

Jonny catches sight of that midget kid again and sees his number and name for the first time: Kane, #17. But then the kid is turning around and Jonny goes rigid, freezes up right on his skates as he’s gliding towards the bench. The smile on the kid’s face is so wide it looks like it hurts and so bright it could be the rink’s own small, personal Sun. And when he notices Jonny staring at him, he nods his head in Jonny’s direction in acknowledgement. Jonny doesn’t know what the hell to do with that and it’s all he _can_ do not to trip over the gate as he hops up and waddles towards the locker room.

Jonny is twelve-years old, but he sees Kane, #17 and his wicked smile in his dreams for a long time after that.

It’s not the last time they ever see each other because Jonny gets convinced and then roped in to play with the Junior Flyers in the Midwest Elite Hockey League for a tournament. One of the player’s moms decides to have a little get-together for the team and the other parents one day before the first practice of the tournament starts. Not fifteen minutes pass from the moment Jonny and his mom are invited in and given warm introductions that Jonny is blinded with that same terrible and beautiful smile from halfway across the backyard. And the déjà vu hits him like a bad check into the boards and Jonny wobbles a little on his feet because, _oh god,_ it’s Kane, #17. Jonny stares at him, knows he probably looks far too-startled for a teenager at hockey party and that his mouth his hanging open. He wishes he could admit that Kane didn’t get taller, but Jonny’s glad to admit to himself that the kid is still short, still small, still underweight, and probably still too good at hockey. There’s a guy beside Kane and Jonny has to look him up and down once to know he’s a goalie; they all give off the same vibes. Only this goalie is loud as all hell, his warbly, puberty-inflicted voice booming over all the other guys surrounding him. And, usually, loud and obnoxious guys kind of bother Jonny because they always talk over people and need to be the center of attention. But Jonny’s too preoccupied in staring at Kane that he hardly notices his mom trying to nudge him in the direction of the huddle.

“Go talk to them,” she murmurs to him. But he stays glued to her side almost the entire time they’re at the party like some momma’s boy.

A few of the guys are daring enough to come up and talk to him and introduce themselves. They’re kind and they talk hockey for a little while until Jonny sees the loud-mouthed goalie walking towards him out of his peripherals, flanked by Kane. Jonny clams up almost immediately. Then the goalie is shoving his hand into Jonny’s line of sight and Jonny reaches out hesitantly to take it almost solely to be polite. The guy is saying something, his name probably, but Jonny’s not really paying attention. David? Daniel? He’s jostling Jonny’s shoulder amiably, but Jonny feels like his consciousness has parted ways with his body.

And then it’s like Jonny’s entire existence sharpens and narrows on Kane, #17’s face as the goalie (Damon? Doug?) steps aside and lets Kane through. It should be funny, their height difference, as they finally come face-to-face with each other. But Jonny’s not laughing as Kane half-smiles up at him, a dimple nestled in the pale curve of his cheek. Jonny’s not laughing because Kane’s eyes are the same color of the summer sky overhead and there’s this glint in them like he _knows_ who Jonny is. Like he _remembers._ And Jonny’s still not laughing as Kane pulls a hand out of his short’s pocket and holds it out for Jonny. When Jonny grasps Kane’s hand, Jonny holds his breath for a moment because everything inside of him goes rushing up into his throat and he’s afraid that his entire world is going to explode.

“I’m Patrick,” he says in a muted voice as he shakes Jonny’s hand.

“Jonny,” he manages to stammer out. Patrick’s grin gets even wider, takes on a mischievous edge, and the other dimple indents into his other cheek.

“I know.”

That’s all they say to each other for the rest of the party. Not a single word more is exchanged between Jonny and Patrick. And Jonny ends up sitting up late that night, staring at his ceiling, and rehearsing all the things he could have said to Patrick. Eventually though, he comes to the conclusion that it’s probably a good thing they didn’t really talk to each other; Jonny isn’t sure he could have talked to Patrick without looking and sounding like a complete moron. He gets angry with himself as he rolls over to stare at the wall instead. He can’t let his admiration of Patrick Kane’s talent get in the way of what Jonny’s really here for: hockey. So, Jonny burrows down further under the sheets and nestles his head against the pillow and wills himself to sleep.

But Jonny’s tired when he wakes up the next morning, feeling like he didn’t sleep at all. His mom runs a hand through his hair lovingly, muttering in French about how tired he looks, as she meanders around the kitchen to throw something together for breakfast. Jonny drags through his morning routine, throwing his hockey bag into the back of the car with unnecessary force. He sits, stonily silent, as his mom drives him to the first team practice. He’s one of the first guys there and much to his dismay, the goalie whose name still feels so unimportant, is already there too.

“Jonny, my man!” He claps Jonny on the shoulder and it’s all Jonny can do not to glare at him venomously.

Jonny wanders over to the stall where his new jersey hangs and drops his bag on the bench. Jonny unzips it and begins to pull his stuff out, first setting his skates aside, before pulling out his gear. He begins to strip out of his street clothes and shrug into his shorts and shirt. By the time he’s suited from the waist down the locker room is mostly filled up. Jonny turns around to take in the faces and voices around him, trying to test himself and see if he remembers names from the party. But all he manages to see is Patrick Kane walking into the locker room in flip-flops and cargo shorts, the hockey bag slung over his shoulder looking as big as he is. Jonny freezes where he’s standing and tries to, as nonchalantly as he can, turn back to his stall and finish throwing his gear on.

Jonny yanks on his shoulder pads and nearly smacks himself in the mouth in his haste to get dressed and get out of the locker room and out onto open ice where he can breathe. He can’t stop himself as he glances over at Patrick who is halfway across the room. Patrick is completely silent and he’s putting his gear on piece by slow fucking piece like he doesn’t need to be on the ice for practice in ten minutes. He’s just doing is own thing and minding his own business and Jonny is surprised that none of the guys have tried to talk to him yet. It’s like they don’t find how quiet he is weird in the same way Jonny does. Jonny just assumed that he was a talkative guy; he looks like a talkative guy. Patrick still doesn’t have any upper-body gear on as Jonny laces up his skates and heads for the door.

Practice is painfully uneventful and no amount of viciously wishful thinking could get Jonny’s new coach to put him on a line with Patrick. Having to stand on the ice and watch scrimmage lines rush the net, having to watch _Patrick_ rush the net, made Jonny want so desperately to be Patrick’s center. Jonny centers the second scrimmage line instead and plays harder than he needs to for a practice. He bonds better with the boys during the practice than he did at the party, naturally. Hockey has always made Jonny less socially awkward. He doesn’t really get to talk to Patrick though and they only end up sitting next to each other on the bench once during the scrimmages and they don’t even speak a word to each other. They mostly just watch the play, their heads turning left and right to follow the puck.

The team’s first game is the following week and they play really well. In fact, the first few games they play go swimmingly. Jonny’s so enraptured with the way Patrick plays that he hardly watches the _actual_ play going on. Patrick’s one of the fastest skaters Jonny’s ever seen, probably because he’s so small, and he weaves around players like they nuisances and not moving obstacles. But when it’s Jonny’s line on the ice, Jonny is more focused than he’s ever been in hockey games before, partly because he’s no longer the top scorer of the team; Patrick is. It makes Jonny an unsettling combination of strangely proud and uncontrollably furious because he doesn’t like to be shown up or outplayed. So, he works harder and still only manages to be right behind Patrick in goals and points. Patrick is all smiles and stupid celly’s though, soaking in the team’s chirps and cheers like a sponge and channeling it into his game. In the third week of the tournament, the team is on _fucking fire_ and everyone is playing like this is the playoffs but Patrick is playing like every game is the Stanley Cup Final. And it’s all thanks to Patrick that they’re doing so well. The energy in the locker room is insanely high and even Jonny is smiling between periods as they rehydrate and tighten laces.

It’s in the third period of their eleventh game that the center of Patrick’s line, Mathew, goes down and doesn’t get back up. Mathew has to practically be carried into the locker room on his now broken ankle, biting off muffled cries of pain as some of the guys and the doctor help him. Jonny slumps down on the bench, seething from the hit on their second line and how they’re tied in the tail end of the third. He jerks in response to a hand that grabs his shoulder and looks behind him. The coach is staring down at him, face grim and eyes narrowed.

“Toews, you’re centering the first line. Get on the ice.” An inexplicable thrill shoots through Jonny and he’s jumping over the boards without another complaint despite the fact that he just finished a shift. He skates towards the face-off dot, all jitters and unnecessary nerves. Patrick grins at him from his position at right wing and gives Jonny an awkward thumbs-up with his gloved hand. Jonny sucks in a deep breath of air to smooth out the feeling of his heart plummeting into his stomach. He hunkers down at the dot and waits for the puck.

The moment the rubber hits the ice, Jonny’s blood goes hot and his nervousness drains out of him as he snaps the puck back. The play is unfolding perfectly as one of the defensemen sauces a beauty of a pass and the puck smacks against Jonny’s tape and then he’s tearing down the ice, Patrick to his right. Jonny can feel the rush of it inside of him, some electrifying energy, like white lightning whipping along his nerves, setting him all alight. He feels like he’s glowing, shining from the inside out, bright enough to blind everyone around him. His lungs are shuddering in oxygen as fast as they can, chest heaving, his legs aching in a painfully delicious way, and he can feel his pulse all along the length of his body, beating like a war drum .Jonny looks briefly at the net, doesn’t like his options, and chips the puck over to Patrick. It touches Patrick’s stick for maybe a second, a brief, fleeting moment, and then it’s in the back of the net. Jonny’s momentum that he tried to put the brakes on but couldn’t gets overtaken as Patrick comes streaking around the backside of the net and barreling into Jonny. Patrick almost knocks the both of them over as they collide, blasting his excitement over the goal loudly in Jonny’s ear. And Jonny has his arm around Patrick’s shoulders and is smiling so hard his face is starting to hurt as the other guys join the celebration. Jonny looks Patrick in the eyes and neither of them holds the gaze for too long.

It’s the most magical fifteen seconds of hockey Jonny has ever played with anyone. And the look in Patrick’s too-blue eyes says he feels the same way.

They play the rest of the tournament like it’s do or die. And when the day of the farewell party comes, hosted at the same house that the pre-tournament party, Patrick is all but glued to Jonny’s side. They argue, they bicker, they shove each other playfully, and this party feels far friendlier than the first and far more bittersweet than Jonny feels is right. As the sun sinks down to give the darkening horizon a burnt orange kiss, the party begins to wind down as families and players leave. It’s too soon into a grueling Gamecube marathon between Patrick and the goalie, whose name is actually Darrel, that Jonny’s mom comes to retrieve him. Jonny had already said most of his goodbyes to the guys earlier as they shuffled one-by-one out the door, but now he’s left to say goodbye to five of them. He moves through the farewells as quickly as he can because its more painless that way, but he gives Darrel and a tight hug because, despite the mouth on the guy, Jonny had really come to like him.

But then the only person left is Patrick and Jonny sucks in a deep breath and braces himself for the separation that’s about to drive the two of them apart. Patrick gives him a half-smile, but it’s forced and tight and he looks just as unhappy as Jonny feels. And then Patrick’s reaching out, wrapping his arms around Jonny and tucking his chin into the crook of Jonny’s shoulder and Jonny’s hugging him back maybe a little too tightly. When they pull apart, they take a few steps back from each other and Jonny tries to pretend he doesn’t see Patrick’s slightly wet eyes because it makes the blue so much brighter and Jonny can’t handle that.

“Good luck, Jonny,” Patrick murmurs as Darrel swings an arm around Patrick’s shoulders amiably, unaffected by the emotion crackling between him and Jonny.

“Yeah, man! Maybe we’ll all play together again someday!” Darrel gives Jonny a goofy smile and bobs his head.

Jonny hopes so. Jonny’s going to spend the rest of his days hoping he gets to play with Patrick Kane again because there’s something between them, some innate hockey-connection, that he won’t forget.

Just because Patrick isn’t his right wing anymore doesn’t mean Jonny plays bad hockey after they part. In fact, he plays harder like he has to make up for the fact that Patrick _isn’t_ his right wing.  He plays fantastically when he’s in Minnesota at Shattuck-Saint Mary’s, racking up points like nobody’s business. He gets better at making friends, gets taller, gets bigger, gets better. He plays a season at the University of North Dakota, making friends with T.J Oshie, his right wing, that reminds him a whole hell of a lot of Patrick. They’re the same type of confident frat-boy that balances Jonny’s fierce determination and tunnel-vision out. Of course he gets into trouble with T.J more often than he’d like to, some of it even illegal. But he’s in college and he’s having fun and he’s playing some fucking awesome hockey. At least, he thinks he’s playing awesome hockey because when he’s slotted into the 2006 Draft, he’s ranked third.

The Chicago Blackhawks select him and Jonny has a brief moment of panic as they call his name because he’s headed to a dead hockey city. He’s checked off one part of his dream though, to reach the NHL, but he’s going to be playing to a sparse crowd in a city that’s given up on this sport. So, he begs off a year with the Hawks to play one more season at UND. He ends up an NCAA MVP for the West Regional and feeling a little bit better when he ditches his last two years of collegiate hockey to finally accept to a contract with the Blackhawks. Jonny is having such a busy year that he didn’t pay much attention to the guys heading to the Draft in ’07, but when he clicks on his TV, sure he’s missed it already, he sees Patrick Kane being called up to the podium as the 2007 #1 Draft pick of the Chicago Blackhawks and Jonny has to sit down on the floor in a rush before his legs collapse under him.

_He’s going to play with Patrick Kane again._

Jonny knows it too. He knows that there’s training camp and the possibility of being sent to Rockford or some other AHL team, but something inside of him is screaming over those fears, telling him that he’s finally getting what he’s been hoping for all these years. _Again._ And that feeling, that subtle burst of excitement in his chest every time he thinks about it, is what gets him through hauling all his stuff to Chicago. Reliving the feeling of being Patrick’s center-man is what gets him through the wait for training camp. But he’s jittery all the time, trying to stay composed and failing miserably to the point where his mom starts to worry about his mental health. But when training camp comes, he’s one of the first guys on the ice, suited up and ready to prove himself.

And it’s while he’s talking to one of the defenseman, Seabrook, that Jonny looks up and sees Patrick, in person, for the first in nearly five years. He’s no longer Patrick Kane, #17 though. Two bold eight’s stand out on the back of his practice jersey, his surname stamped proudly above the double digits. Jonny wishes he could say that Kane didn’t get taller, but he hasn’t by much. But Jonny’s glad to admit to himself that Patrick is still short, still small, still underweight, and probably still way too fucking good at hockey. Patrick’s older looking now too, like he’s done a little bit of growing up. He’s still all pale skin stretched over high cheekbones and a squared chin. His gear still looks like it’s too big on him and everyone else present for the training camp towers over him by a good four to five inches. As Jonny stares at him, struck dumb by years of nostalgia and sudden exhilaration, Patrick’s messing around with the only other Patrick on the team, getting clearly harassed and shoved around. And Jonny can’t help himself as he gently pushes away from Seabrook and just glides over towards Patrick, everything inside of Jonny rushing into his throat like the first time he and Patrick met. Jonny stops and stares for the briefest of moments at Patrick and feels his world tilt back onto the right axis. Because Jonny plays good hockey, knows that every other guy he’s played with in the past has made him better. But Jonny plays _excellent_ hockey with Patrick and nobody else has ever come close to being a suitable substitute.

“Patrick.” It’s not even a question because it’s a name Jonny’s had stuck in the back of his throat, trapped in between his teeth, and caught on the tip of his tongue since he was a kid.

And when Patrick turns around at the sound of his name and sees Jonny, his whole god damn face lights up like somebody reached inside him and flipped a switch and lit him up from the inside out. Patrick’s face breaks out into that familiar, terrible smile that’s all teeth and cheekbones and dimples and vivacious blue eyes and it strikes a match against Jonny’s bones and sets every mile of nerves crowded inside his body on fire.

“Jonny.”

All the unspoken, separated years flit between them like passing ghosts and this time Jonny doesn’t break eye contact with him. Jonny drinks in the sight of Patrick Kane standing at center ice over the Hawks Indian head with the empty United Center looming up around him and swears he can see the future in the summer-sky blue of Patrick’s eyes.


End file.
